Closet Case
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: The plain fact of the matter was – sometimes things happened for no good reason Mike could think of. Mike/Peter
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Peter and Mike get trapped in closets a lot more often than you'd think.

**Pairing: **Peter/Mike.

**Warnings: **I don't think there's anything warning worthy here.

**Notes: **It's not like there's a shortage of Torksmith fic out there, so I feel kind of guilty adding to the pile - but not guilty enough to actually stop myself from adding this to the pile, if that makes any sense.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Monkees, and this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!

* * *

The plain fact of the matter was – sometimes things happened for no good reason Mike could think of.

Actually, that wasn't strictly true. _Most of the time _things happened for no good reason Mike could think of.

Okay, maybe you could draw a wobbly kind of correlation between Davy falling in love with some chick and chaos, or Micky unearthing an ancient artefact at the bottom of the cereal box and chaos, or Peter taking candy from a stranger and…

…well, all right, all roads seemed to lead back to chaos – which Mike might have figured was a pattern, if chaos wasn't by its very nature, pattern-resistant.

No – what Mike meant was – strange things tended to happen around the Monkees, and there was no point in getting hung up on those things, because most of the time, they didn't mean anything at all.

Which was why, the first time he found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he didn't worry overmuch about it. If he _had _stopped to think about it, he might have classified it as 'just one of those things' right alongside the fact that Davy's current divine goddess kept a taxidermied bear on her bed instead of a teddy. Odd, sure, but devoid of any deeper meaning.

But he really didn't stop to think about it, because it was _happening_ – and, like most events that hit them smack out of nowhere, Mike figured the best response was to just roll with it. After all, no-one was in imminent danger, now that the goddess' father and his big stick had gloweringly retreated back to Mount Olympus (or maybe the tool shed).

Anyway, what it came down to was – it was probably better to hang tight for a while, just to be on the safe side.

It was a pretty big closet (with the noticeable exception of Davy, this week's goddess demonstrated a marked appreciation for the more sizeable things in life) so it wasn't like he and Peter were shoved up against each other or anything. As a matter of fact, their only point of contact was at the lips – their bodies remained chaste inches apart, and Mike's hands were pushed way down into his pockets. In the darkness, it could almost have been anyone Mike was kissing.

Except, of course, that it wasn't anyone. It was Peter, and Mike didn't know why he'd even want to pretend otherwise, because knowing it was Peter next to him, Peter whose lips were brushing softly against his – well that was what made the whole thing what it _was_.

Which was – very strange. And somehow, also, very sweet.

But probably not…_important_.

* * *

The second time he found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he still didn't pay it much mind. Again, mostly because it was _happening, _and it was hard to analyse and kiss at the same time.

Maybe he should've heard warning bells then, since everything (him, Pete, closet, kissing) added up to history repeating, but there were just enough differences to set this time apart from the last one.

For one thing, the closet was bigger – and not really a closet so much as a storage room. For another, there was light from the bare flickering bulb overhead. And finally, this time Peter had wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Mike's left wrist, and the occasional brush of his thumb over Mike's skin added an entirely new dimension to the whole making out process.

Sure, standing back and looking at it objectively, this set up was pretty similar to the first – but well, Mike wasn't exactly in the kind of position that could be described as 'objective' – and anyway, sometimes – sometimes, you just found yourself in a situation that smacked of déjà-vu. How many times had Davy been imperiled due to a pretty face and a bad case of love-at-first-sight? How many times had the Monkees had to foil an evil criminal who bore a suspicious resemblance to last week's evil criminal? Not to mention, you could set your clock by the regularity with which they found themselves embroiled in zany schemes.

There was nothing _sinister _about it. The way Mike figured it, there were times when the universe was as stretched for plot as a roomful of scriptwriters with a deadline. Sometimes, purely for the sake of convenience, it had to reuse scenarios – that was all. But that didn't mean the scenarios themselves had any deeper significance.

Plus, the lack of warning bells probably meant that Micky had successfully dismantled the security system - and _that _meant that Davy could switch out the fake, paste tiara with the real deal, and Princess Romalita would never have to know that the symbol of her country's proud independent spirit had spent the last couple of days on the head of a faceless mannequin in a high-end department store.

Really, everything was going according to loosely-conceived and sloppily-executed plan, and that was worth celebrating. And _this_ kind of celebrating, with the soft, careful meeting of lips and tongues, and the electrifying sweep of Peter's thumb against his inner wrist – well, it sort of blew the alternative (a congratulatory round of milk and stale cookies) out of the water, celebratorily speaking (no offence to the milk and stale cookies intended).

It still didn't mean that _this_ was _important_, or anything.

* * *

The third time Mike found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he – well, all right, that one did kinda make him sit up and take notice.

Or…at least, he _would_ have sat up and taken notice if he could. But as it was, he was pretty busy worrying about the fact that he and Peter were squashed together like people-shaped sardines inside a black magician's box, and about to spend the rest of their lives in pieces, going by the look of the jagged saw he'd noticed in the Marvelous Barnaby's right hand just before he'd slammed the lid shut on them.

He managed to smack his palm awkwardly against the lid of the box, and call out, "Hey there! Hello! Um – I'm not so sure we oughta be in here, after all."

He took the muffled, "You're not?" as encouragement.

"No," he said. He attempted to turn his head, but ended up with a mouthful of Peter's hair for his trouble. He spat it out, before continuing, "It's a little cramped for what we need. We're looking for at least a three-bedroom property in a nice location."

"With better natural light," Peter chimed in.

"Why didn't you boys say so?" the Marvelous Barnaby tutted. "I'll let you out in just a minute – right after I perform my amazing Dismemberment Caper!"

There was a faint sound of cheering in the background, and then, all too close, a rough, serrated kind of scraping coming from the vicinity of the wood above their torsos.

"Wait!" Mike tried not to panic. "Just – wait a minute! Why do you need two of us for this –" he swallowed, " – Dismemberment Caper anyway?"

He sagged in relief as the sawing stopped and the Marvelous Barnaby said, sounding indignant, "Why do I need two – why to prove that I'm twice the magician my competitor is, of course!"

The sawing resumed, increasing in energy as the Marvelous Barnaby muttered, "The Slightly Unusual Udolpho! Huh! Who does he think he is with a title like that!"

"It certainly isn't the most audacious of stage names," Peter agreed.

"I'm glad you concur." The box shook with the renewed force of the Marvelous Barnaby's sawing. "Believe me boys, your reward will be great in Heaven."

They clutched each other. "_Heaven_?"

"Sure – you know Heaven. It's that little club around the corner."

They relaxed a little. "Oh man – for a second there, I thought you were _trying_ to kill us," Mike said.

"Oh no. Of course not!" the Marvelous Barnaby said, saw falling into a semi-smooth rhythm. "Usually, it just happens. I never have to _try."_

Peter's hands clutched Mike's in panic again. "What are we going to do, Mike?" he whispered. Mike's eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside the box, so he could make out Peter all right, but he was so close that trying to actually focus on him made his eyes cross. He pulled his head back a little, thumping it off the side of the box, and tried to swallow down his terror.

"Oh, now, I'm sure everything's going to be just fine. Why, we're probably worrying about nothing. After all, the Marvelous Barnaby's a trained professional" –

"Actually, I'm entirely self-taught," came the voice from outside.

" – right. So, like I was saying, it's obvious what we need to do."

"What?"

"Take the closed casket option for our funerals." He stared up at the black lid of the box, bare inches above his eyes. He wondered if being dead would be anything like this. There probably wouldn't be the scraping sound of sawing in the background, and it probably wouldn't be as cramped, since he wouldn't have to share a coffin with Peter – but then, on the other hand, it seemed kind of churlish to insist on separate caskets at the last. Sure, this was a little crowded and uncomfortable, but it wasn't like he minded sharing with Peter – and he'd probably mind even less when he was dead.

"Mike," Peter whispered again. His left hand rested on Mike's chest, burning hot through Mike's shirt. "I'm scared. I don't want to die."

"I'm not exactly fired up about it myself," Mike admitted, kind of shaky, and suddenly, they were kissing.

It was hot and messy and awkward, given that they couldn't move much in the narrow space provided by the Marvelous Barnaby's black magic box. Mike craned his head forward, and Peter did too, and their lips clumsily came together, and they kissed desperately, like – well, like they were about to get sawn in half by a madman any minute, and this was their last chance.

Mike's heart pounded in his ears louder than the saw, he felt like he was suffocating under the wave of heat that rolled through the confined space, and even though he knew his legs were jerking against the inside of the box, he couldn't feel them. He thought maybe he wouldn't even feel the saw slicing him in half, if this crazy, shaky numbness lasted. He hoped Peter was feeling it too.

Luckily, however, he never got a chance to test this theory out, as the Marvelous Barnaby abruptly stopped sawing, and a commotion commotious enough to impinge on Peter and Mike's consciousnesses occurred outside the box. Mike guessed it must be serious, since the Marvelous Barnaby's audience had accepted the likely grisly death of two random young musicians with barely a murmur.

He and Peter pulled the scant inch away from each other that qualified as 'apart', while overhead, a welcome, familiar voice introduced the crowd to, " – the Thoroughly Mendacious Micky Dolenz – Master of Misdirection and Virtuoso of Verisimilitude!"

Appreciative applause followed, and another familiar voice said, "Thank you! Thank you! And may we have a hand for my lovely assistant – the Delightful Dynamo, Davy Jones!"

There was more clapping, and Mike found himself gripping Peter's hand inside the box.

"Hey – what's the big idea?" the Marvelous Barnaby's voice demanded. "This is my show!"

"Yeah, well, now it's our gig," Davy's voice informed him.

"Says who?"

"You know what – he's right. This guy's right, Davy," Micky's voice said.

"I guess it _was_ a little rude of them to just barge in," Peter told Mike, who stared for a moment, then banged the flat of his hand against the lid of the box in disagreement, and called out, "Help!"

"I'm glad you see it my way," the Marvelous Barnaby said. "Now – where was I?"

Both parties inside the box tensed, but Micky's voice came again, as he said, thoughtfully, "I guess we'll just have to keep our prime example of prestidigitation to ourselves, then."

"Prime example of…?" the Marvelous Barnaby asked, sounding intrigued, before saying, in a slightly more bored tone, "But that could surely hold no appeal for _me - _an expert in sleight of hand!"

"Well, believe me, in _our_ hands, this stuff isn't so _slight_," Davy informed him.

"Show me then. I demand that you share with me your secrets!"

"If you insist. Step right this way sir," Micky said. "Don't be afraid – yes, right inside. Now pull the door closed behind you…make sure the lock catches – annnnd….don't forget to write!"

"Ladies and gentlemen – the Magnificently Mendacious Micky's Disappearing Act!" Davy cried.

A few seconds later, and Mike found himself taking a bow with Peter in front of audience that clapped politely at their continued existence.

But this time, afterward, he found himself thinking of the Marvelous Barnaby's box, and Peter and the fact that this was the third time he'd found himself kissing him (Peter, not the Marvelous Barnaby) in an enclosed space within a pretty short span of time.

Despite the fact that the last couple of weeks had included a murderously angry father, a plot to steal the crown jewels of a small principality, and the very real and alarming possibility of life without a lower body…

…he was forced to admit to himself that there was a possibility that this situation with Peter wasn't 'one of those random things' he could just shrug off, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Really, what Mike felt, more than anything, was a kind of vague irritation. Because…this thing with Peter had felt sweet and uncomplicated – but then the universe had taken what had been a straightforwardly odd situation and knotted it up to make a problem, which Mike was now going to have to spend his time unpicking.

It was just…he remembered so clearly how he had felt each time Peter had leaned in close to him and the very air had seemed to soften with the slowly dawning inevitability of a kiss.

It had felt like – receiving an unanticipated gift, offered without strings and without the weight of expectations or future payment – a gift in the truest, purest sense of the word.

It had been a good feeling.

But now, since kissing Peter had become a recurring problem that needed to be dealt with instead of a random interlude to be enjoyed and shrugged off afterwards, the memories didn't hum harmoniously in his mind anymore. It felt like the sweetness of the past had been soured by the prescience of the present.

In all of this, the one thing Mike took some ice-cold comfort from was the fact that even if this whole kissing-in-closets business had sprung some sudden complications –

well, that just made it a problem and a nuisance. It didn't make it _important._

* * *

Really, the only thing that could be done, was talk to Peter about it. After all, kissing was pretty much the definition of a two-player game – so it was just common sense to straighten things out with the other player. Mike didn't know why he was dragging his feet so much about broaching the subject – but he finally did, after a couple of thankfully closet-free days.

A fruitless first day on the job (literally – the ad had left off the crucial word 'prickly' in its call for pear-peelers), meant he was back at the Pad earlier than expected. Peter was alone, sitting on the couch and petting a small sheep, and when he looked up and smiled, Mike knew _this_ was the moment.

So he crossed over and sat on the couch next to Peter.

"How did it go?" Peter asked.

"Turns out Old Mr Rossum's pretty picky about his pear-parers," Mike said. He paused. "What are you doing?"

The sheep turned its head and gave Mike a baleful look as Peter said, "Nothing much. Just woolgathering." He tapped the small wicker basket beside him, which was filled with wispy whitish stuff.

"Oh," Mike said. He tilted his head and assessed the rapidly expanding bald patch on the back of the sheep's head. He cleared his throat. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Of course we can," Peter said. He turned on the couch to face Mike, a look of determined concentration on his face, hands coming to rest in his lap. The sheep bleated, and he said, with a frown, "Not now, Flossie."

Mike blinked under Peter's enquiring gaze. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I – well…that is, we…" he coughed, hoping to dislodge some more helpful words. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he looked straight at Peter. "I guess, what I want to say is – it's been a confusing couple of weeks."

"Boy, I'll say," Peter agreed.

Mike took a relieved breath. "You've been finding that too?"

"Oh, all the time," Peter reassured him. "I mean – it seems like there's always something going on, and most of the time it doesn't seem to make any sense at all." He smiled at Mike. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one who finds it hard to keep up."

"Well – sure…sure," Mike said. He cleared his throat again. "But – see, I wasn't really talking about things in general. I was referring more to – specifics."

Peter frowned. "Oh. Well, in that case, I think you're going to have to be a little more – specific."

Looking into Peter's eyes, such specificity seemed suddenly impossible. "I just think that there are – some things that we shouldn't keep sweeping under the carpet," he said eventually. "You know what I mean?"

"Absolutely," Peter nodded. "It's unsanitary. My mother always says she judges a place by whether it's clean enough to eat off the floor."

Mike could feel his eyebrows pulling together. "I meant," he said, voice slightly louder, "the kissing."

In the sudden silence that fell, the sheep bleated interrogatively.

"The kissing," Peter repeated.

Mike looked down and concentrated on working a pear prickle out of his thumb. "You know – lately, lately it seems like every time we're alone together in a closet – or any confined space," he added quickly, as he got into the swing of specificity, " – we end up...you know."

"I do know – after all, I was there all those times," Peter said. He didn't seem unduly upset. In fact, he looked and sounded serenely oblivious – which, all right, did seem to be Peter's default operating mode, but still…Mike was expecting more of a reaction. It didn't seem fair that Peter should seem so unaffected when Mike's words kept getting lost whenever he opened his mouth.

"Just – I think we oughta talk about it, that's all."

Peter did frown then. "Why? Didn't you like it?"

"That's" – Mike remembered the feel of Peter's mouth against his, the crazy heat that seemed to be generated just from the touch of his lips against Mike's, the way time seemed to catch and slow down in the moments just before it happened. "That's not the point."

"Then what _is_ the point?" Peter asked, and though it was a reasonable question, and for Peter, it scaled hitherto unknown heights of rationality, it bizarrely left Mike stumped for an answer for several long seconds.

"The point is…the point is…" he said, before he hit on an explanation, and straightened, " – this thing's getting to be a habit, and we need to break it."

Peter looked at him. "Why?" he asked simply.

"Be-cause…" it was hard to explain the logic of something that seemed so very obvious. "Because – that's what you do with habits. You form 'em, and then you break 'em. That's how it works. Didn't you ever have a bad habit when you were a kid?"

Peter considered this. "I guess I used to bite my nails," he said.

"See? That's what I'm talking about," Mike said. "And then – you broke that habit, right?"

"Actually, I broke a tooth – and then my mom just stopped buying me presents from the local hardware store," Peter said.

Mike absorbed this. "Well – the important thing is, you stopped a destructive behaviour. And that's exactly what we need to do. I think, from now on, if we find ourselves in a similar situation, we need to – to restrain ourselves."

"You really think that? That we should restrain ourselves?"

Mike nodded, and firmly squashed down a brief, regretful pang. "I think it would make the whole situation a lot better."

Peter thought about it. "I guess we _could_ do that," he said eventually, thoughtfully. "I mean – I'm not very good at tying knots, and it sounds kind of kinky, but I'll try anything once."

Mike's mouth opened, and then closed. And then opened again. "That…wasn't what I meant," he said, finally. He looked at Peter, and tried very hard to be as clear as he possibly could. "I meant – we should stop kissing. With our mouths," he emphasized, in case there was any doubt in Peter's mind. "So, next time we get stuck in some closet, we just – don't kiss each other."

"Oh," Peter said.

It was a very small word, so it didn't make much sense for it to trip Mike up, but it did. Maybe it was the mistrustful glint in Flossie's beady eyes.

"I just – I think it would be better," he found himself repeating. Neither Peter nor Flossie seemed especially reassured.

* * *

The fourth time Mike found himself trapped in a closet (well, a payphone-booth) with Peter, things didn't exactly go according to plan.

"It's a masterpiece!" Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) said, as he stood back with a flourish and admired the tableau in the middle of the deserted art gallery. The phone was digging into Mike's back, but any attempt to move just made his front brush up against Peter. He shifted uncomfortably, caught between a Tork and a hard place.

"I'm sure it looks very impressive, from where you're standing," Peter called, face pressed against the glass.

Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) reeled backwards in revulsion. "Impressive? It looks like the construction of a madman. And _that_ is what makes it genius!"

"Yeah, it's the work of a regular mastermind all right," Mike muttered, before raising his voice and saying, "Hey – not to get all plebeian in the face of genius" –

"It's all right. You probably can't help it," the ARTISTE! told him.

" – but do you think you could see your way free to letting us out? It's kind of a tight squeeze in here."

"Of course it is. It's a representation of the limitation of modern forms of communication."

"Well, the limitation of modern communication is making my legs cramp," Mike said. "So do you think you could let us loose now?"

Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) stroked his beard contemplatively. "The evils of modern life are not to be escaped from – merely transcended. The sooner you learn that, the happier you will both be." He paused and held up a big purple tube with _Lock Tight Glue _written in bright red letters on the side. "Also – the door is bonded shut."

Peter and Mike looked at each other in alarm. "You _glued_ us in here?" Mike immediately began to pull at the door, but true to the slogan, it was indeed, locked tight.

"How else was I to capture the raw despair and panic that this piece required?" Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) asked. "You boys don't strike me as actors."

"But – you can't just leave us in here," Peter said.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't. But my Muse demands it," Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) told him earnestly.

"That is just about the nuttiest, most nonsensical thing I've ever heard," Mike said.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "If your Muse told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?"

"Are you questioning my artistic impulses?" Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) narrowed his eyes. His beard appeared to bristle.

"No – just your sanity and general lack of ethics," Mike said.

Sage Karma (ARTISTE!) seemed to relax. "Oh, well, that's all right then." He took another two steps back, and kissed his fingertips. "You will be the highlight of my show tomorrow night!"

"Tomorrow night!" Mike and Peter cried. The ARTISTE! held up a commanding hand. "Enough! Remember to save some despair for tomorrow!" He padded across the concrete floor, and flicked the light switch, leaving them in darkness.

Initial attempts to ram the phone booth door open by force were not encouraging. Mike rubbed his aching shoulder, while Peter consoled him with, "Well, it did say 'lock tight.'' He surveyed the glued door. "It's good to see there's at least some truth in advertising these days."

A brief silence descended. Mike tried to ignore the way Peter's chest brushed against his every time he breathed. He resolutely stared over Peter's shoulder, through the glass that afforded a glimpse of the bare, darkened studio. In spite of everything, "I guess this isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to us," he had to admit, with a grudging sigh.

"It _is_ kind of nice to have the opportunity to be part of a bigger artistic movement," Peter said.

Mike eyed the confines of the phone booth. "Not _that_ much bigger," he muttered, trying to ease himself another precious inch away from Peter.

"The only thing is, Micky and Davy'll probably be worried when we don't come home tonight." Peter paused for a moment, then brightened. "Maybe we should call them."

"Yeah, right, maybe we should" – Mike's eyes widened, "Maybe we should _call them_! Peter, you're a genius!"

Peter frowned. "Gee Mike, that's nice of you to say, but it's not like I'm the one who glued us into this phone-booth."

It took a whole lot of fancy footwork to shuffle themselves into a position where Peter could reach the telephone receiver. And then it took some more careful maneuvering for them to empty their pockets of change. And after _that, _they had to engage in some more complicated, claustrophobic choreography to get the phone receiver off the ground where it had fallen in the search for spare change.

Mike was just about ready to explode – it felt like his body was wound up like a spring from all the touching, and with every accidental brush or pat or stroke, something in him just got twisted tighter and tighter. When Peter finally got through to Davy, he sagged (as much as one _could_ sag in a cramped phone booth) in relief and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Hi Davy," Peter said. Then, "Davy? Davy?" and louder, "Well, can you hear me now? Good! Listen, me and Mike are just calling to let you and Micky know that we've been chosen to contribute to a valuable artistic dialogue that promises to jolt our all too lethargic society into action." He recited Sage Karma (ARTISTE!)'s words dutifully. "So we're not going to make it home tonig" –

"Give me that!" Mike grabbed the phone off him. "Hi, Davy?"

"…ike? Is every…all right?"

Mike frowned at the faint, fuzzy sound of Davy's voice in his ear, then said, "No – everything is _not _all right. Now listen man, cause this is real important. We need you and Micky to come down here to Gallery 27 at the corner of Arp and Ziegler. We're stuck in a phone booth and we can't get out."

"Can you…say…again? …cutting…and out. What galle…you...ing about? …seeing a show?"

"No!" Mike said loudly. "Not _SEEING _a show –being _PUT _in a show – against our will! Gallery 27 on Arp and Ziegler! Come quickly! And bring a hatchet!"

"Harp a…eager? Bring…gadget?"

Mike thumped his head against the black plastic body of the phone. It was almost a relief when the line cut out at that moment. He took one, two, three deep breaths.

"Well, looks like we're stuck here," he said in defeat, squirming around to face Peter again.

Peter considered the phone. "I guess this really _is_ a representation of the limitation of modern forms of communication." He shrugged. "Well, there's only one thing left to do."

"Oh? And what's that?" Mike asked.

"Make the best of a bad situation," Peter said, looping his arms around Mike's neck.

Startled, Mike tried to move back – hindered enormously by the fact that there was no 'back' to move to. He swallowed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable," Peter said. "It's like my brother always says – when life hands you lemons" –

" – make lemonade?" Mike finished.

Peter frowned. "No. Be careful not to get any juice in your eye." He surveyed Mike. "Isn't that sore?"

Mike thought the phone might have carved a permanent dent in his back. "No," he lied.

"Oh. Well – you should still try this. I mean, we're going to be in here all night. We might as well try and get comfortable."

The thing was – Peter was right. There were hours to go before there was any possibility of being let out of this box. And Peter's eyes were shining with the sincerest concern for Mike's wellbeing. So Mike allowed himself a half-step away from the pointy-cornered phone, and stood front to front with Peter. He awkwardly put his arms around Peter's waist and they kind of…leaned on each other. It was weird – but it did help alleviate the discomfort of being sandwiched between four narrowly spaced walls.

It was still a pretty rotten situation to be in, but oddly, Mike could feel the tension just easing out of him with every stroke of Peter's hands.

It took him a moment to realize, through the fog of contentment misting his brain, that Peter's hands shouldn't be curling through his hair, fingertips slipping under his hat, before descending to rub his shoulders again.

"What – uh – what are you doing?" Mike asked. He tried to focus, because logic told him that there was no good reason for Peter to be petting him like he was a cat, even if his body was purring in contentment.

"What?" Peter asked.

"The – touching," Mike clarified.

Peter frowned. "You're touching me too."

Mike was about to argue this point, because he was certain his loose grip around Peter's waist was not quite on the same scale as Peter's careful, curious exploration. But then he discovered that while he'd been on the receiving end of Peter's wandering fingers, his own hands had somehow meandered into a more compromising position. He removed them from Peter's back pockets and coughed. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Peter said.

He genuinely seemed to believe this. His eyes were wide and clear, and his face was untroubled.

And then Mike realised – he'd probably forgotten all about their discussion on the couch. He guessed it made sense. After all, there was a reason all of Peter's clothes had address labels sewn on – and it wasn't so that _they _didn't get lost. Why, he and Davy and Micky practically had to tape 'Return to Sender' to Peter's forehead every time he left the Pad on his own.

It really wasn't surprising that this whole 'appropriate-behaviour-in-closets' thing hadn't sunk in on the first try. Clearly, Mike was just going to have to explain it to him again.

Mike opened his mouth, reluctant, but determined to begin the process of re-education, when Peter said, "We were following your rules."

"What?"

"No kissing," Peter reminded him. "That's what you said, isn't it?"

He stared. "You – you actually remembered what I said."

"Of course," Peter said. He looked at Mike, and admitted, "I have to say, I liked it better with the kissing, but this is nice too." He put his hands on Mike's shoulders again, and leaned in close, hair brushing softly against Mike's cheek. Meanwhile Mike stood, frozen.

There was a terrible pounding in his head, because even though Peter was following the letter of the law he'd laid down, the spirit of the thing was floating high above the phonebooth and shaking its spectral fist at them. Mike got the distinct feeling that this whole closet business had just developed a whole other layer of complication, because – Peter _wanted _to do this now. And not five minutes ago Mike had found his hands in the back pockets of Peter's pants.

All of which meant that even if the kissing _had_ started as a meaningless, chance incident – and then turned into a mild compulsion, somehow, in the intervening time, it had developed into something bigger than even Mike was prepared for.

What they now had on their hands was a problem _with teeth. _

All of a sudden the lights went on again and there was the sound of a throat being cleared.

Both of them turned to find a tall, bespectacled man in a suit queueing outside the glass.

"Are you fellas almost done?" he asked. "I hate to rush you, but I really need to use that phonebooth."

"Well, see – we'd _like_ to be done," Mike said, seizing on this unexpected stroke of luck. "But we're kind of trapped in here."

"Trapped?" the tall, bespectacled man repeated.

"We've been glued in here by an emerging young artist with a lack of morals and a whole lot of _Lock Tight_ glue," Peter explained.

The bespectacled man bent and studied the glued outline of the door. "So I see," he said.

"Maybe you could go and get someone to help bust us out," Mike said, hopefully.

Arms folded, still studying the door, the man eventually said, "Actually – that might not be necessary."

"No, man, I really think you oughta get some help – believe me, this thing's pretty solidly stuck." Mike rubbed his shoulder in memory.

The man looked undecided for a moment, before pushing his spectacles up on his nose. "Well – I've never done this before, and I must admit, it is a little unorthodox, but…" he said, before ripping off his shirt, tie and jacket in swift economical moves. His pants were just as quickly disposed of, revealing a brightly coloured spandex-and-tights covered body to a gaping Peter and Mike.

"Here goes! Watch out!" the now spandexed man said, before attempting to rip the door off its hinges.

There was a brief, embarrassed pause, before he noted, "Wow – when they say 'lock tight' they really mean it."

Eventually, he climbed the phonebooth (somewhat awkwardly) and pulled off the top, before hauling Mike and Peter out.

"Gosh," Peter said, as he clambered to his feet, "It's a real pleasure to meet a genuine superhero."

"I'll say – you showed up in just the nick of time," Mike added, dusting himself off. "I guess you musta been on the lookout for a phonebooth so that you could avert crime in the city without jeopardizing your civilian identity."

The superhero shook his head. "Actually I just really needed to make a call."

* * *

Two days later, when Mike finally got a chance to talk to Peter about their little setback in the phonebooth (Micky and Davy were currently occupied by a sandcastle building contest with some extremely competitive children), he said, "The thing is, I think we need to quit this thing cold turkey. And that means no kissing, no touching," he counted these off on his fingers, "and no – well, whatever else you can think of." He quickly folded the rest of his fingers down, a little amazed at the variety of 'whatever elses' his own mind had managed to come up with in the blink of an eye.

Peter took this on board with a frown. "Gee. That kind of takes all the fun out of being trapped in a closet."

"Maybe that's because being trapped in a closet isn't _supposed_ to be fun," Mike told him.

"How about we just call it a _hobby_ instead of a _habit_, and then we don't have to worry about it anymore," Peter said, looking hopeful.

Mike shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because…" Once more, Mike found himself briefly stumped for an answer, until he remembered the way the simplest touch of Peter's hands or mouth made him feel loose and relaxed, and at the same time, out-of-control. "Because that wasn't normal kissing. It was a harbinger of doom."

Peter looked down shyly, "I thought it was pretty groovy too."

"Look – I just think that this thing could lead to all sorts of complications. I mean, if it kept on happening, well, we'd probably have to tell Micky and Davy, and they might think it was – I don't know. Strange."

"Davy wouldn't think it was strange," Peter argued. "Davy kisses girls all the time, in lots of different places. Remember when we found him with that girl on top of the flagpole?"

"But those girls weren't part of the group," Mike said. "This kind of thing…it could change our whole dynamic – it could end up changing everything. And _that's_ why we can't do it anymore."

Peter didn't say anything, and Mike tried to lighten the mood a little. "Besides, 'kissing people in closets' is a little offbeat to be a hobby, even for us."

"But I wasn't kissing people in closets," Peter corrected. "I was kissing _you_ in closets."

Something in Mike's chest gave a funny little jolt as he realised just how closely Peter's obtuseness resembled obstinacy. But this thing had gone far enough – with every repetition, it loomed closer and closer to _importance._

"Look – here it is. I'm voting we call it quits on this thing, before it gets serious," Mike said finally, raising a hand.

Peter considered this, looking down at his hands, before coming to a decision. "I think I'm going to have to abstain," he said, with a small, helpless kind of shrug.


	3. Chapter 3

The fifth time Mike found himself stuck in a closet with Peter, there was no kissing. Or touching. But oddly, this didn't feel like the victory it so clearly was. Maybe it was because the fate of the world was at stake, or maybe it was just because Davy was an unwilling (as well as an unwitting) chaperone – or maybe, maybe it was down to what Peter said after the world failed to end and they finally exited the closet.

It all began with Micky signing up for scientific experiments (sure, he wasn't an _actual _monkey, but the scientists seemed quite pleased about broadening their study sample), and it ended with the other three Monkees following Secret Agent Z as she strode through the darkened science facility.

"So, what happens if we don't reach Micky in time?" Mike asked.

Just ahead of him, Agent Z didn't even pause. "He dies," she said absently, peering around a corner, before motioning them forward.

"Dies?" they all repeated, exchanging alarmed looks.

"What did you think I meant when I said the evil scientists would take care of him?" Agent Z asked.

"Well, we were kinda hoping against hope that you meant it in a good way."

"They're _evil_ scientists."

"That's still no reason to perpetuate a harmful stereotype," Peter said.

Agent Z checked her watch. "This is a moot point. Your friend's brain is probably already mush."

"Well, yes," Peter admitted. "But what has that got to do with the situation at hand?"

She sighed, hesitating fractionally as they came to the end of the corridor, before taking a right turn, high-heeled boots clicking decisively on the floor. "I mean, he is probably dead already."

Davy clutched at her catsuit-covered arm and looked up at her, appealingly. "No! It can't be. There's got to be some hope!"

She stopped dead, causing Mike and Peter to back up behind her – but she didn't seem to notice, staring down into Davy's eyes with a look of puzzlement. "Your distress…it distresses me. Tell me why this is?"

"I don't know – maybe you just don't like seeing other people in pain," Davy offered.

Without breaking eye-contact with Davy, she reached behind her and pulled Peter forward, only to slap him across the face. Over Peter's startled exclamation of pain, she shook her head, once. "No. That is certainly not the case."

Mike took hold of Peter's shoulder, pulling him back. "You all right?" he asked.

Peter rubbed his cheek. "You know, when we teamed up with a ruthless secret agent who deals in assassination and murder, I didn't realise there'd be this much pain involved."

"It's been a new experience for all of us," Mike said soothingly, risking a brief pat to Peter's back. "Mind you, some of us seem to have adjusted quicker than others…"

In front of them, Agent Z and Davy hadn't broken their staring match. "There may be a…small chance…that your friend is still alive," she told him. "A chance more diminutive even than you, but a chance nonetheless."

"In that case, we'd _really_ better hurry," Mike said, casting an appraising look at Davy.

Neither party appeared to hear him. "You know, I never met a girl quite like you before," Davy said.

"I know."

"You do? How?"

"You forget, you have been under my surveillance for the last two weeks. In that space of time you have met many girls – but none like me."

Mike cleared his throat loudly, causing Agent Z and Davy to jump. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. "But maybe we oughta be focusing on Micky and the killer monkeys right now?"

Agent Z blinked, then shook her head briskly, as if to clear it. "You are right," she said. "Come. We have wasted enough time."

Davy floated after her, a familiar lovestruck expression on his face.

Mike sighed.

"Cheer up," Peter told him. "It's not the end of the world." He paused. "Unless it is – in which case, there's no use crying over spilled milk."

"That's a…unique way of looking at the situation," Mike allowed, with a sideways glance. In spite of Peter's best efforts, that really wasn't the most comforting way of looking at things. But it was so perfectly, weirdly Peter that it kind of helped anyway.

"So – being a top secret agent – what's that like, then?" Davy asked, apparently sufficiently distracted from the possible end of the world by the presence of a coldly beautiful undercover operative.

"It is the same as any job, I would imagine," Agent Z said. "Only more tiring, more taxing, and involving a greater level of training in the arts of subterfuge and exotic accents."

"Exotic accents?" Davy asked.

Agent Z tilted her head at him, and asked, voice swooping into a Cockney accent, "'Allo, love." She winked at him. "Cheer up guv'nor – it's not s'bad. Stick wiv me, an' you'll do awright." Abruptly, her face slid back into an expressionless mask.

"Eliza Doolittle. That's good, that is," Davy told her. "Now can you do Greta Garbo – you know, 'I want to be alone'?"

"Probably without even trying," Mike said.

"Sssh!" Agent Z said, and to their horror, they heard footsteps approaching. A wild survey of their immediate surroundings showed a wide, bare corridor with locked doors on either side, and no likely hiding places. "Follow my lead!"

There was a brief and confusing few minutes during which it turned out that Agent Z's catsuit somehow transformed into a sizeable open-topped sports car. Which Mike wouldn't have figured would've helped them all that much in this situation, but Agent Z obviously had a plan, because when the night guard came yawning around the corner, and nearly walked into the front of the car, she seemed completely blasé, holding hands with Davy in the front seat.

The night guard seemed completely stumped, walking around the vehicle parked right in the middle of a hallway in the Straight Arrow Laboratory (a misnomer on several levels, given both the killer monkeys and the maze-like construction of the building).

He scratched his head. "What is going on here?"

Agent Z snapped some bubblegum and said, "What does it look like? We're waiting for the movie to start."

"…oh," said the night guard. "Well…you kids drive safe, you hear? And don't take these corners too tight."

"We'll be careful," Davy reassured him.

He walked off, with a kind of preoccupied gait that hinted that his acceptance of the sudden existence of a drive-in movie theatre in the middle of a science lab was not going to last for very long.

"I wonder what movie we're going to see," Peter said, holding out his bag of popcorn to Mike.

A few minutes later, they had all emptied out of the car, Peter apologizing profusely for the spilled popcorn and the stains. Agent Z turned her head, to where two buttery handprints adorned her lower back. "If we live," she said darkly, "You are paying for the reupholstery."

"We can settle that later," Mike said, as Peter shrank behind him. "But maybe right now we could get back to business."

Agent Z nodded slightly, and they hurried down several more corridors, eventually finding themselves facing a row of narrow doors. Agent Z produced a dainty tool kit, seemingly from thin air, and forced the lock on a few of them.

One of them contained shelves full of tiny cymbals, another contained tiny fezzes and small colourful vests.

"Just as I suspected. We are almost at the heart of their operation," Agent Z said, shining her torch over the contents of the third closet (a stockpile of bananas). "In just a few more moments, we should be" –

Suddenly, a piercing sound rent the air, and lights began to flash.

"The alarm!" Agent Z said. "They have released their creations. We are too late."

"What? No," Mike said. "There's gotta be something we can do."

"No. I have failed, and now all that remains for us is to wait for the world to be taken over by killer monkeys." She gave a short, sharp sigh, then turned to Davy and said, "I apologise for this wanton display of emotion."

Davy blinked. "That's it?"

"You found it lacking?"

Davy gestured behind him, toward Peter, who was clutching Mike's shoulder, while Mike absently patted his back in comfort (though he didn't know quite who this was comforting – himself or Peter).

"I suppose I was just expecting something a bit more…more," Davy said. "No offence. It's probably very good for a first try."

Agent Z looked at him. "Perhaps…you can show me how to be vulnerable in our last few moments on earth." She stepped backwards into the last cupboard, leaving the door just barely, invitingly open.

"Well – I think she's got the right idea," Mike said, over the loud sound of the alarm.

"I'll say," Davy said, staring dreamily at the banana-filled closet.

"I _mean_, we'd better hide, before those monkeys come prowling around," Mike said. "Peter – you take that closet, and I'll wait it out where they store the cymbals."

Peter didn't say anything, but as Mike made to step past, he reached out and grabbed Mike's arm. "Can't we wait it out together?" he asked. "I don't want to be alone right now. I want – I want to be with you."

His eyes were wide and his expression was pleading, and Mike thought that as overwhelmingly competent a woman as Agent Z was, Peter had her beaten hollow in the appealing vulnerability stakes. He found himself staring helplessly back at Peter, and saying, "All right."

It was a dumb idea, he knew, because he was overwhelmingly aware of Peter's hand on his arm, and willingly stepping into a confined space with Peter in the middle of a fraught situation was just asking for trouble given their recent history, but…well, Peter had asked him, and if Mike was honest, waiting for the end of the world with Peter in the next closet over was a very lonesome prospect.

Still, just after Peter ducked into the closet containing all the little fezzes and vests, Mike grabbed Davy (who was purposefully straightening his shirt and adjusting his cuffs, eyes still fixed adoringly on Agent Z's door) by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into their closet with a protesting, "Awk!"

Peter frowned a very little when Mike deposited Davy between them, but he didn't say anything. Unlike Davy, who said, indignantly, "What's the big idea? I've got an appointment next door."

To Mike's alarm, he put his hand on the door.

"Now wait a minute – are you sure you want to spend what could be your last minutes on earth with some stranger? Wouldn't you rather spend it with your closest friends?"

Davy immediately turned the handle of the door, only to sigh and release it a moment later.

"See?" Mike said. "That's what I'm talking about. That's the power of friendship."

"Actually, these doors lock from the inside," Davy told him.

A few minutes later, and they were all seated, slumped on the floor, and hardly the most encouraging advertisement for friendship.

Surreptitiously, Mike looked at Peter, who was staring down his hands, seemingly absorbed, though not happily. The corners of his mouth tilted downwards, and it made something clench up in Mike's chest.

Meanwhile, Davy adjusted the tiny fez he was now wearing on his head and looked at his watch. "Seven minutes," he said gloomily. "I could've had seven minutes in heaven with the girl of my dreams."

"I don't know why you're so cut up about it. What's seven minutes in heaven when any second now, those killer monkeys mean you could be heading for the real deal?"

"It still would've been nice – just for the purposes of comparison," Davy said sulkily.

As it turned out, the world didn't end, but then, it rarely did.

Micky released them shortly afterwards, dressed in an organ-grinder costume, and surrounded by chattering monkeys who did not resemble the well-trained, murderous force Agent Z had described in the slightest – though they did destroy the lab with a kind of cheerful, riotous efficiency later on.

"I might've mixed up their medication a little," Micky said with a shrug.

They released Agent Z, who immediately began to round up the stray scientists. When the last one had been locked into a cage, Davy sidled over to her, cleared his throat, and said, "Y'know, I was hoping that we could maybe" –

She turned to him, and her left eyebrow flicked up slightly. "The moment," she said, as monkeys rampaged joyfully around them, "has passed."

As they made their way out of the building, Mike hung back a little, and waited for Peter. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You've been kinda quiet ever since Micky rescued us."

Actually, he'd been quiet before that, and he hadn't met Mike's eyes ever since he'd had dragged Davy into the closet with them. It made Mike feel like he'd kicked Peter in a tender place, bruised him somehow, and it filled him with a shamefaced need to make things right again.

Peter looked at him then, and he said simply, "I'm okay."

He didn't look okay.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded. He took a breath. "I guess I should say – it's all right."

"What is?" Mike asked.

There was a long beat as Peter studied him. "It's all right," he said again, eventually, and accompanied it with a small shrug. "You don't want me to kiss you anymore, so I'm not going to."

Then he walked past Mike, who stood rooted to the spot, staring after him, for several moments. His reverie was eventually broken by a passing monkey, who pressed a banana into his hand, before vanishing in a clash of cymbals.


	4. Chapter 4

And so, things went back to normal (or at least, the Monkees' loosely defined version of normal). And that was – well, not what Mike had wanted, precisely, but what made the most sense to him. It was just – no matter how ridiculous the trappings (telephone booths, superheroes, incompetent magicians, or switched out crown jewels) there didn't seem to be any way of disguising the core of seriousness that seemed to lie at the heart of what kept happening between him and Peter in small spaces.

You could dress it up with all the killer monkeys and egocentric ARTISTES! you wanted – but there was no masking the feeling Mike got when his mouth met with Peter's.

It felt...serious. Not – heavy, exactly, but – sincere and – straight up. Genuine. _Earnest_. And as a one-off, or even a two-off, that was just fine, a sweet moment that Mike could press like a flower between the pages of his memory, and take out and look at afterwards.

But, as a regular thing – Mike couldn't see that there was _room _for something so heartfelt and _real_ in their everyday lives. It just didn't look to be a smooth fit with all the kidnappings and zany schemes and whatnot. It seemed a sure bet that it would get trampled underfoot in all the general mayhem and zaniness, too delicate and new to withstand any kind of rough treatment.

So – as far as Mike could see, breaking the closet habit wasn't just the right thing to do – it was the _only _thing to do.

Except...he'd hurt Peter's feelings in doing that, and that hadn't ever been his intention. And even though Peter didn't say anything else, afterwards, Mike got the feeling he was still cut up about it, and that made Mike feel ten kinds of low-down for having made him feel that way.

Accordingly, he tried to explain it, to fix things so that Peter understood that calling things off hadn't been a matter of choice or preference for Mike – it was a matter of necessity. He'd meant to wait a couple of days, give Peter a chance to settle down, find the right moment – but instead, he found himself blurting it out the very next day, right after practice, over the sound of Davy and Micky arguing in the kitchen over their next meal (which was shaping up to be either nothing with a side of soy sauce, or nothing with a side of ketchup).

There was just something in the way Peter moved, this little hint of stiffness like he was still feeling tender – and Mike found he couldn't stand it any more, and he said, in a low, abrupt voice, "Look Pete – it wasn't, it wasn't that I didn't _like _it."

Peter looked at him and he found himself trying very hard to explain. "It's just – I'm worried that it sets a precedent – you know what I mean?"

"You really think the head of state cares all that much about what two unemployed musicians get up to in their spare time?" Peter asked. He stopped. "I guess we really are living in a police state."

He looked down and absently ran a hand along the strings of his guitar, but before Mike could marshal a better, clearer explanation, he looked up with a frown and said, "Can I say something?"

"Of course," Mike said. "What is it?"

It took Peter a second to begin. "I don't think the president cares about what we do in closets," he said eventually. "And – I don't think anyone else would care either. Micky and Davy are nice people and I think they'd be happy that we found a hobby that interests us."

Mike just looked at Peter, who stared straight into his eyes and continued. "And _I _don't care about it – because I like kissing you, and it's something that I'd like to keep doing." He stopped. "It seems to me like the only person who's bothered by it is you."

He got the feeling he should be saying something here – but there were no words at all in his head. Not that it mattered, because Peter didn't seem to have a shortage. "I wish it didn't bother you. Or maybe I wish that you could explain it properly to me, so that I could worry about it too. But - I guess you can't help how you feel."

From somewhere – maybe the bottom of the ocean, Mike managed to dredge up a rusty-sounding, "Peter – I" –

"I can't help how I feel either," Peter said. "But, I won't do anything about it." He held out his right hand, index and middle finger pointing up and apart. "Scouts honor."

Mike blinked at him, still wordless, but bizarrely moved.

* * *

Peter was true to his word. Of course, he didn't have any opportunity _not_ to be, as the Monkees entered into a temporary closet-free lull – but it seemed kind of mean-spirited to take note of that particular detail.

So – everything was going according to loosely-conceived and sloppily executed plan, and Mike ought to be celebrating. Except...all the current options for celebrating (a hearty helping of nothing with a side order of soy sauce, or nothing with a side order of ketchup) didn't hold a candle to the memory of a celebratory practice of the past, involving lips and skin and hands and –

He caught himself doing that a lot, turning all his closet-based recollections over and over in his mind, like worry stones. He tried to stop himself, because it was stupid, it was unproductive, and now it was over, so it wasn't even like there was any point in it.

He still caught himself doing it though. And sometimes, at odd moments, he found himself looking at Micky and Davy and hearing Peter's words in his head and wondering if maybe he was right, and Mike really was the only one with hang-ups about kissing in closets...

But it didn't matter, ultimately, because whatever he and Peter had been nurturing secretly in confined spaces – it was done with now, and things were back to normal, and that made sense to Mike.

Or at least, as much sense as things ever did.

* * *

The sixth time Mike ended up in a closet (well, a small dressing room) with Peter, it was due to a mix up in Heaven (the club, not the afterlife).

It was the kind of mix up that began with a pretty girl, a smile, and Micky saying, "Aw, come on, I'm just showing her a little appreciation – what's the ahrm in that? You heard what she said – that guy just doesn't appreciate her." He shook his head. "Man, I tell you, if I was her boyfriend, it'd be a whole other story."

And of course, it ended with the reveal that Melody's ungracious boyfriend was Joey 'The Hammer' Palermo. It was a pretty safe bet that he hadn't earned the nickname because of his interest in home repairs.

The original plan was to hotfoot it out of Heaven before Joey Palermo took it into his head to dig out his toolkit and inflict some heavy-dity maintenance on their bodies – but this plan was derailed by the revelation that Micky had already snuck into Melody's dressing room and left her a note and an azalea.

"Why in the world would you do a thing like that?" Mike asked. He cautiously raised his head and peered over the top of the table, ducking down as soon as one of Joey's goons turned a piercing gaze their way.

Micky shrugged. "It was the only flower growing in the pots out front."

"I didn't mean" – Mike shook his head and refocused on the topic at hand. "What did the note say?"

"Well, uh, it said that I thought she was a groovy girl, and that I really liked her show and hoped to see her again soon. Signed, a secret admirer."

Mike relaxed. "Oh, well, if it's a secret admirer, I don't think we need to worry about it. All right – on the count of three, we crawl for the exit." Peter and Davy nodded and readied themselves. "One, two" – he stopped at the look on Micky's face. "What?"

"I mighta gone back and signed the note with my real name. And written my address. And drawn a map to the Pad on the back."

Mike sat back on his haunches. "_Why?_"

"Well, you know, just in case she wanted to be pen pals," Micky tried.

"All right, new plan," Mike said, squinting around the thankfully obscuring tablecloth. The goons were still milling around, casting suspicious looks at the curly-haired clientele. "We need to get you out of here, before those guys stop looking _around_, and start looking _down. _Davy – you go with him, and make sure he gets out without bumping into Joey Palermo or his hammer."

"What? Why me?" Davy asked.

"Well...you're used to working with your ears to the ground. You've got a-a built in advantage in this situation," Mike told him.

Micky asked, "But what about that note I left?"

"Me and Pete'll take care of that. Now quickly – you two crawl out of here as casually and inconspicuously as possible."

He and Peter watched as Davy and Micky made their way toward the exit. They did have to tug on one goon's pant legs to ask him for directions, but he squatted down willingly enough and pointed them on the right way.

Onstage, whatever Melody did was greeted with rapturous applause. Mike turned to Peter. "All right. Now we'd better find Melody's dressing room before the closing curtain."

After bumping into several distinctly unangelic looking patrons, they managed to find their way backstage – where Peter was dispatched to distract the gum-chewing goon stationed in front of Melody's dressing room.

"But how am I going to distract him?" Peter asked, peering around the corner.

"I don't know – but I'm sure you'll think of a way. We don't have much time. Just – try something. Anything."

Peter instead chose to stand stock still in the middle of the corridor. But this somehow provided ample distraction, as the goon squinted at Peter, standing completely motionless in front of him, before straightening from his slouch against the wall, and swaggering toward him. "Hey, kid," he said. Mike began to carefully ease himself along the left side of the corridor.

Peter swallowed. "Me?"

"You see anyone else around here?" the goon asked, beginning to turn around. Mike froze, and Peter's hands shot out and caught hold of the goon's shoulders, keeping him in place. The goon frowned, and batted away Peter's hands. "Hey – watch it! What do you think you're doing?" Mike crept closer.

"I'm – just standing here," Peter said, hands flying back to his sides.

"I know. I noticed," the goon said. "And if you don't mind my saying so – you've got a real talent for it."

"Thanks," Peter said, scuffing a toe shyly against the carpet.

"You ever consider standing as a professional gig?" the goon asked, while behind him, Mike quietly turned the handle of the dressing room door and slipped inside.

He looked around frantically, before locating the note and somewhat bedraggled azalea right in front of Melody's mirror. The handcuffs lined with pink fur dangling over the side of the mirror gave him a moment's pause, but he shook his head determinedly, before grabbing both incriminating items and heading for the door. Only to nearly get hit in the face as Peter scurried inside.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked. "We gotta get out of here before Melody comes back. Or worse, Joey Palermo."

"Too late – they're here," Peter said, and Mike heard the unmistakeable sound of Melody's voice wafting from behind the closed dressing room door, occasionally punctuated by the lower, more menacing tones of Joey Palermo. He didn't need to be able to make out the words to figure they were crooning a deadly duet for him and Peter.

He looked around wildly. "We gotta hide." At the back of the room, a green door beckoned invitingly, and he pulled Peter away from his wide-eyed contemplation of Melody's fur-lined handcuffs, hustling him through the green door and closing it just in time to catch a flash of a great deal of bare, tawny skin as Melody tottered into the room in her towering heels, followed by a dark blur Mike guessed was Joey Palermo.

He shut the door softly and turned around, to find that he and Peter were in another dressing room, similar to Melody's, except smaller, and with more blown-out bulbs bordering the lipstick-kiss covered mirror.

"You see?" Melody's voice came through the door pretty clearly. "There's nobody in here. I told you."

"I saw the way that kid was looking at you," Joey said. "I wouldn't have put it past him to have sneaked in here after the show. He disappeared from the club awful quick."

"Yeah, well, maybe you scared him away," Melody said. "Because he's not here, is he? Unless you wanna check Marie's dressing room – make sure there's no-one hiding in there."

Peter and Mike tensed, but Joey said, "Nah. Kid's not here."

"What do we do now?" Peter whispered.

"I guess we just have to wait for them to leave." Mike turned his head, startled to find Peter so close, just behind his shoulder. He cleared his throat and moved a little to the side. "It probably won't take that long."

"You're right," Peter agreed. "After all, she doesn't have much of a costume to change out of."

"I don't know why you're being so hard on Curly Top, anyway," Melody said, after a pause. "He's a real sweet kid."

"Is that so?" Joey asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, you just make sure he don't end up on your plate, baby – because I know what a sweet tooth you got."

"You know I only have eyes for you," Melody told him.

"It ain't your eyes I'm worried about," Joey said. "I tell you, if that kid was here right now, I'd pound him into a pulp just for looking at you. And then I'd pound his weird friends for free."

Mike hoped the sound of audible swallowing didn't travel through closed dressing room doors. He forced himself to release Peter's hand, which he hadn't realised until just that second, that he was clutching.

"You know, that's what I like about you, Joey," Melody's voice was thoughtful. "You got a real work ethic."

"Violence is a vocation," Joey agreed. "That's what people don't understand about this business."

There was another pause and Mike began to hope that his and Peter's sojourn in Marie's dressing room was at an end.

"I bet it got you all worked up, didn't it? Seeing me with Curly Top." Melody's voice dropped into a throaty purr.

"All worked up, and with no-one to pound at the end of it," Joey said.

Something twisted sickly in Mike's stomach. It was as if he knew subconsciously what was coming next, and he had a feeling he and Peter weren't going to get out of this dressing room as easily as all that.

"I wouldn't say 'no-one'," Melody said, in that same low, inviting voice. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You want me to" –

"You gotta show me how made I made you, Joey, or I won't know how much you care."

"Well, in that case..." Joey said. "My ma always used to say that you oughta give a lady what she wants."

"Your ma was a smart lady, Joey."

Mike closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Mike," Peter said, tugging at his sleeve. "What's going on?"

Mike didn't answer his question, because in just a few minutes, he guessed it was going to be obvious, even to Peter, what was happening in Melody's dressing room. Instead, he moved back, into the middle of the dressing room, and said, "We might as well get comfortable, buddy. It looks like we're going to be here a while."

Ten minutes later and Mike was sitting underneath the big dressing room mirror with the blown out bulbs, and Peter was sitting against the opposite wall. Their stretched out legs almost touched.

They were both avoiding each other's eyes and pretending not to hear the breathy squeals and the the unmistakeable sound of a hand hitting bare skin.

Mike stared up at the white ceiling, eyes practically watering from the force of his concentration and waited for the whole thing to be over. He had a sinking feeling that Melody's words to Micky ("Believe me baby, I can go all night") were going to come back to haunt them.

Peter shifted his weight, and even though Mike was studiously avoiding looking at him, and this dressing room was positively palatial in comparison to some of the places they'd been trapped, he found himself incredibly, uncomfortably aware of Peter's every tiny movement.

"Don't you think we ought to help her?" Peter asked eventually. Startled by this sudden conversational gambit, Mike's eyes flew to his face, but Peter was carefully looking at the carpet.

Mike followed his lead, and ran a hand over the fuzzy brown pile. He cleared his throat and said, "Remember the pink fur handcuffs she had in her dressing room?"

"Sure," Peter said.

"Well – let's just say I don't think Melody's in any kind of a situation she doesn't want to be in," Mike finished.

"Oh," Peter said.

As if to underline Mike's point, Melody's appreciation for Joey's handiwork reached new and even more voluble levels. Her moans vibrated through the door, curling through the air salaciously. They seemed to hook right into Mike's brain, hauling out every single memory he had of himself and Peter and enclosed spaces and laying them right in the middle of the dressing room floor – invisible but somehow impossible to miss.

And with every breathy gasp and every panting moan, those memories seemed to pulsate and grow bigger, demanding more and more space and insisting upon some kind of acknowledgment until eventually it seemed almost impossible to breathe.

Peter must have been feeling the same way, because finally, in the middle of an ecstatic drawn-out whimper (that made Mike both appreciate and despise Melody's level of breath control), he said, almost mutinously, "I still don't see why we couldn't just call it a hobby."

Mike really didn't want to have this conversation right now. As a matter of fact, he didn't think he _could _have this conversation right now given the desert-like state of his throat. "Pete – maybe we could talk about this when we get out of here," he managed to croak out.

Peter looked away.

Melody groaned, a long, lush sound that stretched out, filling the room, and Mike suddenly found himself talking, because this was some kind of torture, sitting and listening to all this moaning and sighing and trying not to look at Peter's face, or his shoulders, or his hands.

"Look," he said desperately, "Say it is a hobby, okay? It's just...I get used to acting one way in here – right?"

Peter didn't say anything, but his eyes met Mike's, though Mike wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, considering the situation. Still, he kept going. "And then...we go outside, and, let's say I forget how I oughta act out there. And then – even if you're right and Micky and Davy don't mind...it's not a hobby any more. Because – if I want something out there..." he felt like he was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of soft gasps, and Peter's gaze, steady and locked on his was the only thing that kept him going. "If I want something out there," he said, "well, it's not like I can – like I can just reach out and _take it._"

He stared at Peter, willing him to understand.

"Why not?" he said, very softly.

"Why not?" Mike repeated. "Why not? Because...because it's not the way civilized people act, and I can't just drag you into closets any time I feel like it."

"Sure you can," Peter said.

Mike could feel his mouth hanging open.

Peter crawled forward a little, hands on either side of Mike's legs. He didn't break eye-contact. "Whatever you want – you can take it. Because – it's yours." He tilted his head and said, "Look, it's easy. I'll show you."

He reached forward and brushed his lips against Mike's. He moved so slowly and carefully that it would've been easy for Mike to stop him. But he didn't. He just sat with his back up against the wall of some girl's dressing room, and let Peter kiss him.

It didn't last very long. Peter pulled back a couple of seconds later. "See?" he said. "It's easy." Melody moaned in seeming agreement. He didn't move any further back, just stayed a bare breath away from Mike, and said, "Now it's your turn," and waited.

Mike didn't move, but then neither did Peter, and for a long moment, they held their positions, eyes locked, until finally, very slowly, Mike's hands came up to cup Peter's face, and he leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was strange, because as intrusive as Melody and Joey's love game had been, the sounds echoing through the dressing room and scratching Mike's ears...they seemed to melt away into nothingness at the touch of Peter's mouth on his. So he kept doing it, kissing Peter, losing himself in the sensation of lips and tongues and the warmth of Peter's hand on his knee.

For once, he didn't call a halt, just kept taking and taking – and strangely, miraculously, just as he seemed to have an unending pull of _want, _Peter seemed to have a likewise inexhaustible supply of _give._

It was a very long time later that Peter sat back and said, "I think they've gone."

Mike stared at him, suddenly realizing the significance of the silence inside the dressing room.

"I guess that means we can go home," Peter said.

"I guess so," Mike said, because Peter seemed to expect some kind of reply. He suddenly felt bereft as Peter got to his feet. The world outside the dressing room seemed uninviting and confusing – in spite of their conversation, he still wasn't sure how to navigate it and make it square with what had just happened between himself and Peter. He wasn't even entirely sure what had been agreed between them...or whether anything had been agreed at all.

Mike braced his hands against the floor, readying himself to stand. Then he stopped.

Peter was standing in front of him, holding out his hand. "Are you ready?" he asked. The question seemed to amplify in Mike's mind, taking on a meaning he didn't expect Peter intended. Still, his hand didn't move, stayed extended toward Mike.

Mike didn't move.

See, the plain fact of the matter was – sometimes things just happened, for no real reason Mike could think of. And, most of the time, those things weren't important. Most of the time, they didn't mean anything at all.

But then, some of the time, they did.

Peter's hand remained, palm patiently held out, waiting for Mike to grasp it.

Slowly, he reached out.


	5. Chapter 5

So, O'FoggageGreen commented a while ago that this story seemed to end very abruptly, and that it really needed an epilogue to close things off properly. Which is...undeniably true :) This is an attempt to do that. I don't know if it's successful, because even though I know the story didn't resolve satisfactorily, I had kind of already mentally written off this story.

This is a long-winded way of saying - if anyone reads this and likes it, they should thank O'FoggageGreen, and if anyone reads it and doesn't like it, they should blame me :)

* * *

The seventh time Mike ended up in a closet (well...no, wait, this one actually _was_ a closet) with Peter, it was a whole week later and things were still unclear to Mike.

Something had changed.

Something was different. Something had happened inside that little dressing room with the mirror and the blown out bulbs. The problem was, Mike couldn't pinpoint exactly _what _had changed, only that something most certainly _had_...

...because he didn't feel quite like the same person walking out of there, as he had been going in. He felt new, a little unsteady on his feet...like a colt, or his uncle Frank Francis (though _his_ perpetual precariousness was mostly due to moonshine and so probably not applicable to this particular situation). Mike felt like he'd shed a skin, or something – which was maybe the reason why the feeling of Peter's palm against his seemed so strong.

They held hands all the way out of Melody's dressing room, whereupon an event suddenly...eventuated...that necessitated an abrupt end to said hand-holding.

Joey Palermo was standing right outside the dressing room door alongside the goon who'd been watching the corridor. Hands were immediately dropped as the goon said, "Here, boss – that's the guy I was just tellin' you about!"

"Stand right where youse are. Don't move a muscle," Joey warned as he sized Peter up, the hammer he held in his left hand slapping ominously against his right palm.

Mike swallowed and began to calculate the possibility of escape. The good news was that escape was _eminently_ possible. The bad news was that it seemed to come with the probability of broken kneecaps. Like a two-for-one offer.

"Yeah. Yeah – I see what you mean, Gus," Joey said, scrutinizing Peter's petrified compliance with his direction. "You're right. I could really use a guy like this in my operation. He's got a real gift for standing still. He's like a – whadayoumacallit, a waxwork, or a dummy."

"Thank you," Peter said, relaxing a little. "My English teacher used to say the same thing."

"So you been working hard on your craft from an early age. I respect that. I respect that a lot..." he paused expectantly.

"Peter," Peter said.

"Peter. Pete. Petey Long Hair, huh?" Joey paused again, smile wiping abruptly off his face. "Hey – what were the two of youse doing in my Melody's dressing room?"

"W-well," Peter stuttered, "I and my-Mike, I mean your, I mean his-Mike, we were just in my-your Melody's room because" –

"We, uh – we were just looking for, uh – Marie!" Mike said with a sudden, fear-stimulated flash of inspiration. "Marie?" he called, peering over Joey's shoulder. He squinted down the corridor. "Marie?"

"Marie?" Peter gamely took up the call, nudging Joey to move his feet, so that he could examine the floor underneath them. Mike patted at Joey's jacket pockets as if expecting to find Marie in there, wrapped up in a handkerchief.

"Marie don't work here Thursday nights," the goon chimed in helpfully.

"Oh...well, in that case, maybe we oughta just" – he grabbed Peter's elbow and attempted to steer him past Joey Palermo, who stretched out his arm like a barrier. It felt like walking into a steel rod – he didn't even flinch as they rebounded backwards.

"You know, youse two look kinda like those guys who were hangin' around with that curly-haired kid." He said 'curly-haired kid' with the kind of lip-curling distaste most people used to say...

...well, 'curly-haired kid,' if Mike was honest.

"What curly-haired kid?" he tried.

Peter pulled at his sleeve. "I think he means Micky, Mike."

Mike closed his eyes.

"Yeah, that's him." Joey looked at Peter. "Your Micky was all over my Melody."

"Oh, he's not _my_ Micky," Peter explained, gesturing at Mike. "He's _our_ Micky."

"Is that so? Well in that case, you can both help me out with this little...piece of work...I got to do."

When Mike opened his mouth to object, Joey slung a heavy arm around his shoulders and mused, "Your assistance in this matter would...wipe the slate clean, so to speak. Cancel out any debts your curly-haired friend might owe me...if you know what I mean...?"

"I don't know what you mean," Peter said. "Micky doesn't owe you anything – we paid for all our drinks."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it's more that..._I_ owe _him_ something," Joey said. He removed his arm from Mike's shoulder, and handed his hammer to the goon slouching against the wall. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles ominously.

Mike and Peter exchanged alarmed glances. Then, stepping slightly in front of Peter, Mike asked, "What" – he cleared his throat, attempting to settle his voice into a lower pitch, "What kind of...job...do you have in mind for us?"

"That's the spirit, boys!" Joey clapped them both on the shoulders. "As for this...piece of work...alls I really need is for Petey Long Hair here to stand perfectly still, whiles I demonstrate to you two just how I got my nickname."

A short while later, and Joey took a step back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Whaddaya think?" he asked.

"Dead straight. You sure know how to work a hammer, boss." The goon stepped forward and framed the picture newly placed upon the wall with his hands. "Perfect. And nice work holding that nail steady," he told Peter.

"How about you, Pom Pom Mikey? That look straight to you?"

Mike squinted at the wall, where an enormous pierrot now bitterly wept. "Yeah. It really does. You – uh, you sure do have a knack for...picture-hanging."

"That's nothing. You oughta see me replace a load-bearing beam."

"Beautiful. Just...beautiful," the goon agreed, kissing the tips of his fingers.

"Whyd'ya think people call me Joey 'The Hammer' Palermo? It's all down to my interest in home repairs."

"_Oh,"_ Peter said, sounding enlightened. "We thought that was because you were a violent and dangerous criminal."

There was a brief, offended pause. "Well...that ain't all that I am," Joey said eventually. "I got _depth, _you know."

"Of course you have," Mike said hurriedly. "We can see that. You've got depth. And – and breadth. Not to mention height." He whistled. "You're the – complete package from where we're standing. Which might be a little too close, come to think of it..."

"Some day I'd like to settle down, open up a little Home Repairs store," Joey said. "That's my dream..."

"Well that's – that's _sweet_," Mike had to admit. "I guess this just goes to show, you really can't judge a book by its cover." Peter nodded in agreement.

"Sure, the store'll mostly be a front for various illegal activities," Joey continued, "– but I figure I could sneak in a little repair work on the side, you know?" He slapped Peter on the back. "Okay, kid, next stop – the main floor. I got this picture of dogs playin' poker that I think is really gonna class up the joint."

Understandably, after several hours of helping a mobster/home-repair enthusiast hang pictures perfectly straight...that strange feeling Mike had that the world had tilted slowly vanished.

By the time they finally got home, the ground felt solid under Mike's feet. He felt not just comfortable in his own skin, but settled in it. Almost hidden inside it – like a snail within its shell.

It wasn't a good feeling. It didn't really feel like a feeling at all...unless 'heavy' counted as a feeling.

"Well...I guess all's well that ends well," Peter said, as they stood outside the Pad door.

"I guess so," Mike said. He looked at Peter, and remembered the raw, hopeful feeling he'd had reaching out for Peter's hand in that little room with the mirror and the blown out bulbs, and Mike wanted, more than anything, to ask him what it all _meant_.

But the words just wouldn't come out, because all of a sudden, that feeling he'd had, seemed like a ludicrous misinterpretation. Because the Pad looked the same, and Peter looked the same, and the whole world looked pretty much just as it had been before.

It had only been a moment, after all – a moment roughly measuring ten steps and two hands...what were the odds that that had the power to change anything at all?

Peter smiled at him before saying, "Well...good night, I guess."

Mike managed to nod. "G'night." He forced the word through his closed up throat.

The soft shutting of the door kept echoing through his mind like a lost opportunity.

* * *

The week that followed, he found himself returning to that dressing room over and over. Not literally, because that would have caused problems with Joey Palermo, plus it would probably have given Marie the wrong idea. Still, he found himself remembering, sifting through what Peter had said, and trying to make sense of things.

Peter'd said...he'd said that if Mike wanted something...wanted _him..._that all he had to do was reach out and take it. Him. And that was – deceptively simple. Mike could parse the words easily enough but the enormity of what they _meant _left him breathless, every time.

He thought a lot about closets, and kissing, and what Peter had said...and he went round and round in circles trying to make what he _wanted_ square somehow with the world he _knew_.

Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Peter looking at him, head cocked to the side, examining him with hopeful, expectant eyes.

But all of this didn't amount to anything until they got invited to play at Harling House, a lovingly constructed replica of an English country manor.

"Mr Harling does so hope you'll have a nice stay," their guide, Beatrice Berkley (originally Betty-Sue DuBois) said. "I suppose you feel right at home already, Mr Jones!"

"Well...I feel like I'm in someone _else's_ home," Davy said. "I don't even know where the bathrooms are."

"Oh, just follow me!"

As they turned onto another cobwebbed, draughty corridor, Mike stopped dead. Because this corridor was lined on both sides with closets. Not just lined – they practically jostled for space, standing chest to drawers with one another. They stretched the entire length of the corridor.

Mike swallowed. He could feel himself reddening.

"This is of course, a tribute to the Englishs' wonderful sense of whimsy. And their love of fine furnishings. Why, you may not be aware, but Mr Jones' people were the driving force behind closets as we know them."

"I guess that explains why Davy's such a bad driver," Micky said, scrutinizing an elaborately carved door. "These things must be hard to get around in."

"Wardrobes!" Beatrice said suddenly, and slapped herself on the wrist. "Naughty me! I should say _wardrobes, _shouldn't I, Mr Jones?"

"You can call them what you like – it's all the same to me," Davy told her.

"Ah. There's that famous English politeness," she said, smiling at him. "Now – you said something about bathrooms, yes? If you'll come right this way..."

She briskly moved along the corridor, trailed by Davy and Micky. Mike didn't move. He couldn't.

_He didn't want to._

And when Peter took a step forward, like he was going to follow the others, Mike caught his arm. Peter turned to him with an enquiring look on his face. "Is everything okay, Mike?"

"I..." Mike looked into Peter's eyes.

There was no reason for them to occupy any of these closets.

No ghosts.

No growling bulldogs.

No inexplicable rain of cricket balls.

No rampaging knights (the suit of armor positioned at the end of the corridor remained resolutely motionless).

So really, he should let Peter go.

_But he didn't want to._

"I..." Mike closed his eyes. He took a breath. And then he let Peter's words ("_Whatever you want – you can take it. Because – it's yours") _wash over him, pulse through his veins like blood. And he straightened up and said, as calmly as he could, "Would you...do you want to – take a closer look at one of these...closets? With, uh, with me?"

He held his breath.

A smile slow as a sunrise spread across Peter's face. "What took you so long?" he asked.

Of course, strictly speaking, they couldn't count their visit to Harling House a complete success...because as they (and particularly Davy) learned the hard way, there was a significant difference between a committed Anglophile (a person with a general appreciation for English culture), and an Anglophile who _should be_ committed (a person who tries to kidnap a Mancunian maraca player to 'complete his collection').

...But whenever he remembered the heavy oak closet (or _wardrobe,_ as Mr Harling had insisted as he chased them through the house with his walking stick), the close darkness inside, the softness of Peter's lips and the shocking warmth of the bare skin of his back – Mike couldn't help but feel victorious.

* * *

The sixteenth time Mike found himself in a closet with Peter, the sweet, soft concentration of lips and tongues and hands was abruptly interrupted by the closet door swinging open to reveal Davy and Micky standing outside. Davy was holding a baseball bat in his hands, while Micky brandished a spatula threateningly.

A somewhat nonplussed silence ensued. Bats and spatulas were lowered.

Eventually, Davy said thoughtfully, "Y'know, when Mr Schneider said you two were 'tied up' in the downstairs closet...this isn't what we expected to find."

* * *

The sixty-seventh time Mike found himself in a closet with Peter, neither of them even paused when Micky flung open the door. Peter's neck was warm against his palm, and his lips were soft and parted – and Micky closed the door almost right away.

Micky was getting better at reading non-verbal cues. Mike thought it might be down to all the practice he was getting.

A second later, and there was a knock at the door. "Hey – guys? If either of you happen to find a ferret in there, it's mine. So...let me know if you see it, okay?"

* * *

The one hundredth and ninth time Mike found himself in a closet with Peter...

...he guessed he was coming around to the idea that sometimes, things happened for a reason after all.


End file.
